


Blood of the King

by agent_florida



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She can see the way he looks at her. And though she knows she shouldn't, she feels a pull towards him that she cannot assuage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood of the King

She could see the way he looked at her.

It didn’t matter what he was wearing around his neck, or what he had said about the woman who had given it to him.  He was a man, with all of man’s weaknesses, and she was fair and beautiful in her own way.  She was no elf, to be sure, but she had a feminine grace about her.

And best of all, she needed no protection.  She was a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and when cornered she was as fierce as a warg.  She knew how to use a sword, what the weight of a man’s armor felt like.  She was sure his elf maiden had never had to endure the hardships of battle-strewn lands as she had had to.

All the same, she might have known the weight of a man’s armor, but she had never known the weight of a man’s body.  As a girl she used to have dreams, but she would always awake to the sunshine on her face and know that these things would not come to her.  Nameless, faceless bodies, and they gave her no satisfaction.

But they always had fair hair, and now she knew what was wrong with her dreams; they were simply not reality.  This dark-haired stranger had swept her spirit away, and now he carried her heart in his hands, albeit unknowingly.

He made her smile.  He could keep up with her banter.  He seemed to know the weight of being royalty, of the pressures of forced leadership.  He had even taught her a thing or two when it came to swordplay, something she thought she would never learn more of after Halas had been banished so forcefully…

_“A good lesson for today, milady,” he said, sheathing his sword and extending a hand to pull her off of the ground.  She took it.  Her hair, her clothes, her boots, even her teeth were full of mud, but she could still find the effort to smile after such a grueling task._

_“I thank you for your time,” she said gently.  She, too, sheathed her sword, and she attempted to brush some of the muck from her clothes once she was standing.  Nothing was working._

_She caught Hamas looking at her.  It was not a harsh glare of reprove, nor a critical stare.  She could not discern what might make his eyes look so soft, but it made her blush.  Then, suddenly, “We are not quite finished here.”_

_“But our hour is nearly done,” she protested, but only meekly.  He was intriguing her, drawing her attention in ways she had not noticed before._

_“In some kinds of combat, you may not have your sword,” he explained.  “Your opponent may not, either.  You may be completely without any sort of blade or shield.  And in that case, you must still know how to defend yourself.”  He relaxed his stance.  “Copy this.”_

_She stood as he was standing.  “Help me,” she said softly._

_“I will go slowly,” he promised.  She saw his right arm move towards her in slow-motion; she caught him by the wrist, then blushed madly.  “Yes, that’s right,” he encouraged her, but then she saw his left arm hacking down to catch her at the shoulder._

_Soon they were engaged in a violent tussle, but somehow they were both giggling.  They hit and parried each other across the yard, each movement quicker than the last, until she noticed that she was being backed into the barn.  Chickens clucked around their feet, and the smell of hay was in their noses._

_And suddenly she lost her footing, falling to her back in the soft straw, and her defensive grip on Halas pulled him down on top of her._

_His knee landed in the pleats of her dress between her legs, and his breath was hot in her face.  When she was brave enough to open her eyes, she could see his less than a foot away.  His hands were trembling, and he was panting._

_After a moment in such an awkward position, Halas stood suddenly.  “My apologies, milady.  Lesson concluded.”  The last she saw of him was his retreating back, his golden curls bobbing back and forth as he ran._

A whole new feeling had sprung up in her that day, a feeling that made her envy the new brides in her village and the gazes that they cast on their lovers.  It started as a clenching in her stomach and ended with a tingling between her legs.

And that was the first thing she felt when she had laid eyes on this man.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn.  Then he truly was the Exiled King.  Her uncle had seen the glances passing between them and was, by his silence, encouraging the two of them to become friends.  But the day she had found out about his elfin lady, seen the faraway look in his eyes when he thought on her, she knew that she had no cause to be thinking of this man.

But she did.  Being blood of the King had its privileges, especially the tent left to her and her only handmaiden.  When she banished the young girl, she had time to reflect on her silly thoughts and why they meant so much to her.

Perhaps it was her inability to seek a suitor on her own, due to her royal blood.  Perhaps it was her fear of being a wife, of feeling the cage of protection surrounding her.  Regardless of what she felt, how she felt, it was a powerful feeling that left her waking in the night with that familiar tingling between her legs.  And it would only assuage if she took matters into her own hands.

She took the time tonight to undress carefully.  Her layers of skirts came off, one by one, after she tied back her hair.  Layer by layer, more of her own creamy skin was revealed.  She was disturbed to see the amount of bruises coming to the surface, though she supposed that this was only the expected result of the days of hard riding she had done to shepherd her people to the protective citadel.  She made sure to touch every one, feeling the sweet pain of effort.

And then, there was only one final cotton slip of fabric against her skin, a short dress that was only used for sleeping.  Looking down, she could see that the cold of the night air had hardened the buds of her breasts, and every heaving breath pulled them against the fabric and gave them a unique sensation.  She let her mind wander as her hands came closer to her own body.

_He would lay her down, his intense blue gaze burning into her soul.  What might he whisper?  “Such a hard day deserves a moment of play.”  Something witty, something enticing.  He would feel her curves through the last scrap of fabric, taking his time to explore her body._

_Would she be his wife, or merely another maiden to him?  Imagining herself as his wife had an appeal, but even in her fantasies she could never rob a man from his intended.  So she left herself vulnerable to a single encounter.  Even more time for him to memorize her; he would never have her again._

_His hands would come up to her breasts, slowly tracing them, then grabbing his way to the tips, then gently pinching her nipples through the worn fabric.  A shiver of pleasure went down her spine, and she did not try to hide it.  She would writhe under his touch._

_Then his hand would come up to caress her neck, to let her hair tumble down over her body, to gently brush his fingertips across her lips.  And then he would kiss her, and the weight of him would gently sink onto her._

_His hands would seek out her hips, would seek out the hem of her slip, and would push it up her body, tracing every curve of his skin as he would make his way up her body.  It would stay just above her bared bosom, slipping up into the pits of her shoulders with every heaving breath.  One hand would stay on a breast while the other, the other…_

_Her curls were already damp, and she could feel the familiar tingle growing.  He would use one of those hands, those burly, masculine, capable hands, and touch her, right where she knew she wanted touched.  One finger would trace her folds while the other would loosen his sword belt, would leave his leather vest on the floor.  He would not be wearing mail – no need to be protective of his body around her, not the woman who wanted to see it all – and she would be surprised to see the pit of his throat jut out into two proud collarbones, revealed by the cut of his shirt._

_And he would whisper “Shh,” and she would close her eyes as he kicked off first one boot, then the other, and then he would touch the part of her body that was most sensitive._

_She bucked against the sensation, greedy for more.  He would take his time, exploring what made her twitch, what made her growl.  She would be his little wildcat for the night, a change from the clawless leopard he seemed to prefer.  And with his hair falling into his face, he would rub ever so gently._

_“No, don’t give in,” he would whisper roughly into her ear as he brought his hand down from her breast.  “Fight.  Fight it.  My little fighter, fight it.”  And his other hand would take over, and a single finger would slowly push itself into her._

_Her back rose off of her sleeping mat.  She wanted to contort into further agony but did not know if it would be physically possible.  His single finger would thrust, in and out of her, rubbing against the one spot threatening to make her fall apart, and her pants would come faster and faster.  And then another finger would join the first, scissoring inside her until she would wonder how she was keeping herself from falling apart._

_He would see the expression on her face, would recognize what her whimpers meant.  “No,” he would whisper.  “Not yet.”  And when her eyes opened she would see his – his nakedness, his whole body – hard, chiseled.  His – appendage – jutting proud like a flagstaff.  And he would settle between her legs, the weight of his body pressing hers down._

_She grabbed the nearest sheathed dagger, with its well-worn pommel, and knew what would bring her there.  He would grab her hip, continue touching her dripping slit, and then – push._

_It would be sweet agony, but he would feel no barrier.  She hoped he would remember that she had been riding horses her whole life, but like most blood in her life she had owed it to the dagger.  He would sheathe his sword inside her, groaning at the tight, wet warmth surrounding him._

_And then he would begin to thrust._

_She wondered, briefly, if he would be gentle like he were with a maiden, or harsh as if he were with a wildcat.  She had no time to decide.  He would groan at the feeling, fisting a hand in her hair as if it would be his tether on reality.  He would start slowly, tantalizing, would make sure she knew his skill and natural… ability._

_And then, as she would shiver beneath him, he would grab onto her hips and pummel her.  Rhythmically, almost hatefully, but she would be able to see the unrestrained lust in his eyes.  His relentless assault would make it impossible to know when she would finally – yes._

_She screamed wordlessly, her mouth contorted into a silent ‘o’, and he would force her to ride out this new feeling with the heft of him still inside her.  And then… would he spill himself inside her, losing himself in the heat of the moment and perhaps seating her with his progeny?  Or would he spill himself somewhere else, treating her like a common whore but having the common sense to leave no trace of where he had been?_

It didn’t matter.  She gingerly removed the dagger’s hilt from her own swollen flesh and grimaced.  A full weapons cleaning would be needed at dawn so as not to look suspicious.  And she must not look at him tomorrow, lest she need to do this again tomorrow night.


End file.
